


To Mυστήριο της Mοίρας/To Mystírio tis Moíras/ The Mystery of Fate

by KenrakenOkwaho



Series: The Lion And The Stallion (Soulmates AUs) [2]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Meetings, Forgive Me, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Het and Slash, Introspection, M/M, Male Slash, Pre-Slash, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Tension, Trojan War, Unresolved Tension, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, soulmark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-02-19 20:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KenrakenOkwaho/pseuds/KenrakenOkwaho
Summary: Mysterious are the ways of fate, unlikely soulmates brought together by the gods to stop a war meant to last decades.





	1. Θανάσιμο πεπρωμένο/Thanásimo peproméno/Deadly destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've been really obsessed with this pairing for a looong time and now I've got the inspiration to write about them... how it turned out I'm really not sure, but I am waiting for your feedback to find out.
> 
> Enjoy and thank you for reading!

The day they whisper their vows before the gods, both Hector and Andromache know that love is not what stands at the foundation of their pledge... at least not the kind that fate has in store for them. No, what truly creates unity between two strangers who bear soulmarks meant for another, what truly matters most at this point is peace, peace through political marriage rather than an overwhelming affection. Nevertheless, they share a mutual fondness and that had been more than enough for their families to put a seal on their union and begin preparations for a royal wedding long before they fully understood their feelings for each other. Now, moments away from leaving the safe confines of his quarters, he's looking in the mirror and he feels fragmented, incomplete as he slowly traces the threads of gold intertwining over his heart into the shape of a lion's head, wild mane spread regally across his skin akin to a crown framing colourless eyes. A dull pain sets in his heart then, an ache so scathing and reproachful that it seems like it's accusing him of unspeakable betrayal to the soulmate he hasn't even met.

 

Later, when they watch over the celebrations from their thrones, he has no doubt that his newly invested wife feels the same. He sees it in her warm brown eyes as they glance at each other throughout the early hours of the night, he sees it as they stroll towards their chamber in comfortable silence, he sees it as they consummate their wedlock in the dark. Neither can truly call it 'making love', it would be too strong a denomination to describe their platonic relationship.

 

"Do you think we'll ever meet them?"

 

Andromache's voice is a gentle murmur drifting with the saline breeze, silver rays of light peeking through the pillars of the balcony as they cascade over their nude silhouettes. Spent, but content in their post-coital bliss, they lay embraced on soft silks, fingers caressing the patterns of his soulmark in tandem with the dance of his own digits across the bronze shield and spear tattooed on her shoulder. She doesn't have to tell him what she is referring to, he knows all too well for he has been asking himself the same thing ever since he was old enough to understand what a soulmate is. For years, he has been wondering day and night who could be the one to make his halved soul whole and bring those orbs to colour... what hue would they be, the deep blue of the Aegean Sea? The lively green of ripe olives in the sunlight? Or... perhaps a dark brown so alike his own, yet so different... But... what is the use of all these thoughts and questions when the answer might not ever come...

 

"Only the gods know our fate, my love."

 

Her giggle takes him somewhat by surprise and he slightly pulls away to look at her questioningly, a grin of his own slowly brightening his chiseled features as he chuckles.

 

"What?"

 

Shaking her head, she brushes her lips against the intricate mark adorning his chest before closing her eyes.

 

"Nothing, dear husband. Let us sleep."

 

Bestowing a light kiss on top of her head, he lays there awake for a while longer, playing with wavy brunette locks until his eyelids feel heavy and he falls into a deep slumber.

 

That night, he dreams of electric blue eyes.

 

◇◇◇

 

Years pass by like seconds, and, soon, Andromache gives birth to a beautiful son. They name him Astyanax. His heart fills with joy and unadulterated love. Still... the very same pain that has been gnawing at his insides all his life only grows, tormenting him in ways no physical torture can. But life moves on and, on the eve of the babe's birthday, Hector and Paris are sent to Sparta to negotiate peace with King Menelaus. Unfortunately, and, more or less expected, it all spirals down quickly, just like everything that requires the presence of his reckless brother. Thus, he finds himself on the same ship with Queen Helen, the Spartan king's wife, all because the little nuisance that his sibling often is cannot look beyond a soulmark nor control his greedy cock. Of course, Hector can see her mesmerising, ethereal allure. He can see the bow and arrow on her right wrist as well, but this does not mean that he condones such actions. Never will he choose to give free rein to personal feeling over the safety of his people and the unbreachable walls of Troy.

 

Never.

 

Yet here he is, drawn in from across the beach by the very orbs that have been plaguing his dreams for years and thinking it wouldn't be so wrong to get lost in them for the rest of his life, no matter where they will take him. So, he gallops towards a possibly impending death while one of his soldiers bleeds out on the sand. He ignores the simmering sensation pulsing underneath his armour. He ignores the thought that the one with a spear embedded in his flesh could've been him. Instead, he focuses on putting his anger behind the throw of his spear, even if it misses by inches, even if he doesn't want it to reach its target at all.

 

Quiet. Everything is eerily quiet as they dismount outside the desecrated temple, Apollo's beheaded statue glinting in the sun. A trap, he is herding his men into a trap, he knows it, they know it, but none of them decide against it. When they step inside, he sees him, he sees the lion prowling in the dark seconds before more blood is spilt on hallowed ground, screams of agony and death bouncing off the walls whilst he continues to advance, slashing enemies who dare to attack. Approaching cautiously, one silent step at a time, wave after wave of rage seething through his veins at the sight of slaughtered priests and sullied stone.

 

He feels him before he hears him. The sharp point of the Greek's blade digging into the back of his neck contrasts with the warm puffs of breath dampening his skin there, calculated eyes sliding up and down his tense form, so intense that they almost feel like hands touching every inch of his body. _Close_. Too close. Then, his opponent speaks, voice smooth and deep, reverberating through his entire being in a perfect synchronisation of unwanted shivers.

 

"You're very brave or very stupid to come after me alone."

 

He certainly is.

 

"You must be Hector."

 

For the love of Apollo, the way his name sounds whispered by this man is kindred to pure sin, enticement for anyone who hears it. Muscles twitch slightly at the nearly imperceptible purr, a surge of heat rushing through his blood. It is from the fight, he tells himself, denial already setting in.

 

"Do you know who I am?"

 

Damn it all, of course he knows, countless stories of his prowess and ruthlessness in battle have been more than enough for the entire world to know who this man is. Brave? Yes. Godlike? Perhaps. Arrogant and selfish? Without doubt. Finally, Hector seems to find his voice, spurred on by the previously quenched ire, the image of the priests lying on the ground in their very blood fresh in his mind.

 

"These priests weren't armed."

 

When silence is his only answer, he pushes on, anger still clear in his tone.

 

"Why are you here? You have no qualms with us. What is here for you to obtain besides meaningless bloodshed and gold that you already have?"

 

A sudden sting makes him wince through gritted teeth, crimson liquid trickling down his neck from the puncture wound Achilles has just inflicted on him. When a wet tongue swipes across his skin to lap up the blood, the Trojan all but jumps, startled by the sensual sensation that leaves his entire being tingling with desire.

 

"They'll be talking about this war for a thousand years."

 

Suddenly, the answer to his question clicks. Glory, the man is here for glory. Peculiarly enough, the words sound far too breathy for the Myrmidon leader to be unaffected by their predicament, yet they are unwavering in their claim as they tickle his ear. He hates how trembles rake his lungs when he retorts.

 

"In a thousand years the dust from our bones will be gone."

 

"Yes, prince, but our names will remain."

 

Then, Myrmidons teem around them, victorious in their fray with the Trojan soldiers. It's all the sign he needs to figure out that the conversation is over. What remains to be seen is if his life is reaching its end as well. The sword lowers, stops right above his armour before grazing around his neck all the way to the front. Aegean blue strikes molten brown, closer than he expected, and he is frozen to the spot, taken aback by the undefined emotion swirling in them rather than the obvious lust.

 

"Go home, prince. Drink some wine, make love to your wife. Tomorrow we'll have our war."

 

They stay like that, nearly nose to nose, for what seems like an eternity and Hector despises how terribly bad he wants to pull the blond into a fiery kiss, how bad he wants to be touched by him and touch him back, how bad he _wants_. More than he is willing to admit.

 

Stepping aside, Achilles gives him free passage and, soon, he is outside mounting his horse, eyes following him all the way, burning into his back as he trots into the distance.

 

◇◇◇

 

Troy greets him with relieved cheers and aghast bustle, people crowding the streets on his way to the palace. Outside, worried and in tears, his mother waits alongside Andromache, a merry Astyanax cradled securely to her bossom, playing with strands of her hair. The second she sees him, Hecuba runs into his arms and cups his cheeks with trembling hands, showering his face with tender kisses.

 

"My son! Thank the gods! My son..."

 

"Yes, mother, I'm all right, Apollo himself watches over me."

 

"Briseis?"

 

Sadness flashes in his eyes then, strong, but quick, the life of a soldier too chaotic and brutal for him to let his feelings pour out more than they already have.

 

A lone tear slides down his mother's cheek as she pulls him into a warm embrace before kissing his forehead. She tells him that the council has been summoned, his father and brother waiting for his presence, beofre she steps back, letting Andromache wrap an arm around his torso, their son already reaching out to greet his father.

 

"You're alive..."

 

He hugs her tightly, nose buried in her fragranced hair.

 

"I promised I'll come back to you, didn't I?"

 

Despite their love not being that of a husband and wife, the feeling is there and surprisingly powerful, much like a bond between siblings. Whenever he leaves, he leaves with the promise to come back to her, to his son, to his family, no matter how or what. She smiles and lets him go. He kisses both her and Astyanax on their foreheads before leaving for the council room.

 

The rest of the day flashes by in a blur of strategic talk and heated arguments about the city's resources and capability to withstand a war of the predicted magnitude. What stays with him after the heated discussion of the council, is his little brother's sudden feat of martyrdom. He would never admit it to anyone else, but Paris certainly doesn't have the quality of a great leader, that's why it's fortunate that Hector is the older one. And that's why his impulsive decision to fight against Menelaus was a surprise for everyone present that evening. Perhaps love really weaves miracles, but there is no doubt the Paris will lose. He knows this, their father knows this, Helen knows this, all of Troy does, but they chose to let the younger prince show his courage, even though it might lead to his very death.  

 

Night comes, and with it the certainty that his mark is now complete, blue ink staring back at him in the mirror. Fury, frustration, suppressed desire, denial, every emotion storming inside him the entire day pours out with this discovery. Andromache watches him, curious and concerned, as he bends to gently kiss their son's forehead, brown orbs narrowing slightly at the wood carved lion. They did not speak since he came back to their chamber, and she did not push. She sees the mark on his chest, eyes void of colour now an almost glowing azure. Curiosity gnaws at her, but she does not ask nor does she say anything when he looks at her with pleading eyes. She does not reject her husband's fervent kiss, images of another surely swimming in his head. And so, for the first time since their son had been born, she lets him pound her into the bed, ghosts of blue and baritone whispers haunting his mind even after he falls asleep.

 

◇◇◇

 

It's quiet inside the city walls. No one sees the silhouette slinking through the shadows.

 


	2. Nα σωθεί ή να καταδικαστεί/Na sotheí í na eínai katadikasméni/ To be saved or to be doomed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, hi, guys, I know it's been so long since I posted this, but I hope it's not too late to maintain your interest. Life has been hectic, as always, but I managed to come up with the next chapter, though it might be a little dull, considering it's more of a slight alteration of some of the scenes. I obviously kept most of the dialogue, only small changes, but I hope I've integrated it well. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy and leave your feedback in the comments. If all goes well, next chapter should be up in no time. Cheers!

When he first asked his mother why the contours of a stallion adorned his skin, he was but a mere boy, no older than six, yet far too perceptive and curious for his own good. He remembers so clearly the forlorn smile grazing Thetis' lips, eyes never leaving his as she kneeled before him, putting her palm over his heart.

 

"This, my son, is your destiny. Your enemy and your love. Your doom or your salvation."

 

Her answer confused him greatly back then, vague and equivocal, even more so for a child. He wanted more than that, more than obscure meanings and embellished words. Still, something in his mother's posture told him it was not the time, not yet.

 

That night, he slept under the stars, wondering what the gods had in store for him.

 

Years passed, the moment of truth finally came, and, along with it, the Ithacan king striving for his succor. He can still feel the wind ruffling his golden locks, sunlight bathing him in warmth whilst his pensive stare followed the newly arrived trireme. Their purpose there had been no secret, word of the war reached many parts of the world, and so did the prophecy of him being the only one to bring victory to the Greeks. Lost in thought, he strolled along the shore until the figure of his mother drew his attention, the moon's ghost looming in the distance.

 

"They say the king of Ithaca has a silver tongue." she told him then, certainty evident in her voice "I knew they would come for you... Long before you were born... I knew they would come..."

 

Silence.

 

"They want you to fight in Troy."

 

Under his mother's gaze, he felt like a little boy all over again, green and somewhat naive, almost shy at the sight of her sorrow. He looked away.

 

"I'm making you another seashell necklace... like the ones I used to make you when you were a boy... D'you remember?"

 

How could he forget... They spent clepsydrae upon clepsydrae roaming the shores and waters, in search of the most beautiful seashells, so unlike the small one he picked up. Her question went unanswered, however, and the image of her smile remained ingrained in his mind from that day on, so bright, yet so despondent before it disappeared altogether. It pained him then, and it pains him even now when he recalls the instant her light began to dim upon hearing his resolve.

 

"Mother... tonight I decide."

 

There's a long pause before she speaks, at last.

 

"If you stay in Larissa, you will find peace. You'll find a wonderful woman, and you will have sons and daughters, who will have children. And they will love you... but you will be unhappy, your soul incomplete, longing for something you will never have. But... if you go to Troy, glory will be yours, and you will find what you are missing. They will write stories about your victories in thousands of years, and the world will remember your name."

 

A flicker of contentment graced blue orbs, so alike his own "Yet you will not care. For a love like no other will burn in your heart at the sight of him, your fates twined for eternity."

 

So sure were her words that he had no quandary about their veracity. He, once again, chose to say nothing, his decision made in silence.

 

◇◇◇

 

He can still feel the tingle of her lips against his forehead, her warm embrace when she bid him farewell the next morning, pulling him in, never letting go... as if it was the last time they would see each other. Now, surrounded by bloodshed and agony, everything seems clearer, simpler, violence his only true refuge far enough from the musings of this tangled fate of his.

 

Taking the temple is nothing if not easy, the battle over sooner than he'd anticipated. There is no doubt that the Trojans are skilled warriors, but even they cannot hold out against his Myrmidons. No army can. With the last fallen soldier lying bloodied on the stairs of Apollo's Temple, shouts of victory already reach his ears, mocking the god's golden idol as they mingle with the clamor of retreat. Removing his helmet, he inhales and exhales, revelling in the smell of steel and blood, the allure of death that invades his lungs, numbing his senses.

 

His voice is cold and steady when he speaks "The Sun God is a patron of Troy, our enemy. Take whatever treasure you can find." No more words are needed after this, his men rushing past him in their thirst for riches. He tunes out the screams that follow.

 

Suddenly, the world is spinning, a blinding light wiping away every thought forming in his head whilst a scorching sensation makes itself known where his soulmark lays incomplete over his heart. His hand moves on its own accord to press against his forehead in hopes to alleviate the ache.

 

"With your permission, my lord?"

 

"Speak."

 

If Eudorus noticed his discomfort, he says nothing, choosing to voice his apprehension instead.

 

"Apollo sees everything. Perhaps, it is not wise to offend him."

 

The man's words ring true, yet they awaken a latent, aimless rage he's been harboring ever since he was born. It all happens in a flash, sword cutting the statue's gilded head clean off, Eudorus' shocked expression only fuelling his fury at the gods.

 

Suddenly, battle cries echo in the distance along with the neighing of horses.

 

 _"Fools."_ he thinks in that moment.Nothing more than an army of fools.

 

"Warn the men."

 

Then, he sees _him_. Riding at the front of the small Trojan party is none other than the eldest prince himself " _Hector."_ his mind whispers.

 

"Wait."

 

The spear is a welcomed weight in his hand rigid and firm, unwavering when he throws it at ungodly speed. He stares with satisfaction as it sinks into the chest of a soldier, the prince's appalled mien stirring the beast inside Achilles, even more so when he responds in like with a spear of his own. Slowly, the lion retreats into the dark confines of Apollo's Temple, his men prepared for the bloodbath that soon follows. It comes as no surprise when the prince stumbles right into his trap, alone and vulnerable with Greek steel threatening to puncture skin.

 

"You're very brave or very stupid to come after me alone."

 

It's enthralling.

 

"You must be Hector."

 

He doesn't miss the slight shudder raking the Trojan's body. What he does neglect to realise is the fact that he's involuntarily leaning closer and closer, breath tickling Hector's neck. The prince's scent is, simply put,  exquisite, a mix of sweat, leather and blood, underlined by something distinctively Hector, citrous and sweet, at the same time. When the answer doesn't come, he decides a little encouragement is in order.

 

"Do you know who I am?"

 

Lean muscles tense under his gaze. Ah, finally, a reaction.

 

"Why are you here? You have no qualms with us. What is here for you to obtain besides meaningless bloodshed and gold that you already have?"

 

Instinctively, he pushes the blade forward in warning. The rivulet of blood that surfaces catches his eye, tongue almost sliding over dry lips in hunger. Transfixed, he inches closer to lick at the crimson liquid, its taste far more pleasant than it should be.

 

"They'll be talking about this war for a thousand years."

 

Something in the prince's posture changes then, his words sure, yet his voice is trembling with barely suppressed arousal.

 

"In a thousand years the dust from our bones will be gone."

 

No hesitation.

 

"Yes, prince, but our names will remain."

 

There's nothing more to be said, finality heavy in the air as his men trample into the small chamber. He lets his sword glide across tanned skin until he's right in front of Hector, icy blue meeting warm brown. The urge to take the prince then and there is beyond strong, it is overwhelming. He craves to touch, to bruise, to  _mark_. Instead, he clenches his hands into tight fists, struggling to get back into control.

 

"Go home, prince. Drink some wine, make love to your wife. Tomorrow we'll have our war."

 

It feels like an eternity before he steps aside. Weary eyes watch with concealed fascination as the prince spurs his horse into a gallop, _running_ from something they both know is inevitable, perhaps even tragic, given the circumstances. He didn't expect to meet his soulmate here of all places. He also didn't expect his soulmate to be the very prince of Troy, his enemy, the man he must kill without hesitation. The irony of their situation is not really a surprise, fate has always been cruel and unpredictable, and Achilles has never believed that he would be an exception nor did he accept to take part in this war for nonsense such as love.

 

So, he watches. He watches the trails of his destiny imprint into fine sand before fading away with the breeze. Under his armour, bronze skin burns as the wild mane of a stallion slowly etches itself over his heart.

 

◇◇◇

 

The walk back to his tent is far more laborious than he'd want, but, taking into consideration the circumstances, it's hardly something unexpected. When he enters, it is both a surprise and a given that he finds a woman, no, a  _girl_ , tied to a post, chestnut hair falling on her shoulders in waves.

 

"The men found her. Hiding in the temple. I thought she'd... umm... amuse you."

 

Eudorus leaves just as quickly as he came, wary about his every action, but content with their victory. Sparing her a few glances, he takes off his breastplate in one smooth motion before moving on to his greaves, aware of the now complete soulmark on his chest, but ignoring it all the same.

 

"What's your name?"

 

Her quietness brings back the memory of Hector's own quiet approach. Looking at her, they even seem somewhat alike, both in appearance, and in attitude.

 

"Did you not hear me?"

 

"You killed Apollo's priests." she finally responds, voice wavering slightly from both covert fear and utter anger.

 

"I killed men in five countries. Never priests."

 

The reply is instant, condemning, spoken with the kind of royal self-righteousness he has always despised "Then your men did... The Sun God will have his vengeance."

 

He's so tired... "What's he waiting for?"

 

"The right time to..."

 

The water is cool and invigorating as it splashes on his face, washing away the grime and blood along with his energy. When she doesn't continue, he throws her a look. It soon becomes obvious why she fell silent.

 

"Your... mark..."

 

It's strange... her bewilderment. Then, it clicks.

 

"You know him."

 

She averts her eyes, stubbornly looking anywhere but at the naked man now sauntering closer. If the girl expects him to hide his mark or avoid the subject at all costs, she is terribly wrong. His interest has already been piqued.

 

"You're royalty. Don't think I am not aware of that. What is your relation to the prince?"

 

"It doesn't concern you! You are nothing but a killer!"

 

A smirk tilts the corners of his lips, amusement plain in his tone when he speaks "Oh, but it does." crouching beside her "You see... I know he is my soulmate, just as well as you now do, but I do not intend to lose this war because of that."

 

The tension is so thick that it can almost be cut with a blade, two worlds colliding as they stare at each other. Ironically, both of their souls are laid bare before the enemy, calling a silent truce for the very same reason.

 

"My lord, Agamemnon requests your presence. The kings are gathering to celebrate the victory."

 

Calculated orbs trained on her, he reaches out to untie the bindings "You fought well today."

 

"My lord."

 

Eudorus' almost childish glee at being praised is more than evident in his tone, at least for Achilles, but the man doesn't dwell on it too much, his steps soon signaling his departure.

 

Standing up, the lion makes for his armour. It takes mere seconds to prepare, fixing the sword on his back as the final adjustment before his attention turns back to her.

 

"Do not leave this tent. Understood?"

 

She nods, but he knows better. Once outside, he motions for Eudorus and two of his men.

 

"Do not let her out of your sight."

 

"Yes, my lord."

 

Oh, how he dreads seeing the rapacious king again. Incompetent buffoon...

 


	3. Η αξία της δόξας/I axía tis dóxas/The value of glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't the brightest chapter, but I still think I can go through with this story... I hope I'm not wrong.
> 
> Enjoy!

It's... disgusting... beyond disgusting to watch the ingrate wallow in the illusion that somehow _he_ was the one to win the battle. It is rather amusing to see this shameless display of foolish and unfounded pride, even more so when he witnesses the blandishment these so-called kings express towards Agamenon. The only exceptions there are Odysseus and Ajax. As if reading his thoughts, the king of Ithaca glances at him, a mocking smile hidden behind his fingers, even though his eyes are rather obvious in their derision.

 

"Tomorrow, we'll eat supper in the gardens of Troy."

 

Big words for a man who barely fights alongside his soldiers. If Achilles chooses not to participate, the battle tomorrow would be over before it even started, and Agamemnon is certainly aware of that as well, but refuses to let the truth sway him from his egotistic ways. Not that the Myrmidon's the one to talk, he might just be as conceited as the Mycenaean king, but at least his vainglory is based on reality. The Greek's smile falls when he sees Achilles, displeasure written all over his face at the mere sight of the warrior. Good. It's mutual.

 

"Leave us."

 

He watches on whilst they gradually take their leave until only Odysseus stands before him. How they bear with the concept of taking orders from a man like Agamemnon is utterly incomprehensible, but people, especially kings, have their own agendas most of the time, so their cunning, often spineless, behaviour isn't entirely unfathomable.

 

"War is young men dying, and old men talking, you know this. Ignore the politics."

 

Accepting the wisdom of those words is not difficult, it is the truth, after all, but pretending to endure the Greek king's self-righteous attitude is something he won't be able to do. The second Odysseus leaves, sparks fly, only the tap of his feet against wood filling the silence as he walks closer. Neither says anything for a few moments, waiting for the other to speak first. On Agamemnon's part, waiting for some kind of laud for his "achievement", laud that they both know is never going to come. Enough is enough.

 

"Apparently, you won some great victory."

 

If only looks could kill, Agamemnon would already be dead, mayhap even gutted. But, since looks can't actually kill, the lion must keep its viciousness under control. At least for a little while longer.

 

"Ah, perhaps, you didn't notice... The Trojan beach belonged to Priam in the morning. It belongs to Agamemnon in the afternoon."

 

Such ignorance.

 

"The beach may be yours now, but Troy isn't, and neither are my men, so choose your next words wisely if you want to win the next battle."

 

His words are sharp and void of ambiguity, they do not leave any room for arguing. The Greek soldiers certainly had their contribution, but victory was ultimately a feat attributed to him, and his Myrmidons. No one else. He knows he could have controlled his temper longer, but something tells him that it would've been a pointless effort in such a conversation. Agamemnon is lucky he's not dead... yet, but he can feel that the man will test his patience in that regard soon enough.

 

The king's reply proves him right, although the knowing calmness in his tone is rather surprising, considering the fool's arrogance.

 

"You came here because you want your name to last through the ages. A great victory was won today, and I won't impugn your part in it. I won't deny that you are a valuable ally in this war. However, few are the soldiers that history remembers without the guidance of a king."

 

It's strange to hear such levelled words coming out of the man's mouth. Vanity is still there, louder than ever, but significantly toned down compared to the usual boast. The attempt to sway him to Agamemnon's side is more than evident as well, offering a warrant for glory that Achilles didn't take into consideration. The implications are clear. He decides to ignore them, anger making his blood boil under bronze skin at the mere suggestion of obeying a king, especially one like Agamemnon. He lets the man continue, though, curiosity overpowering ire.

 

"The girl you took from the temple. How is she faring?"

 

Blue eyes widen for a second, muscles tensing instantly before the warrior schools his expression to one of latent aggravation once again. Too late. The king has noticed Achilles' reaction, a crooked smirk tilting the corner of his lips.

 

"Did you know she is the princes' cousin? A rather convenient acquisition, don't you think?"

 

His stare hardens, turning impossibly icy at the audacity of the so-called king of kings. It doesn't go unnoticed, a pacifying smile appearing on Agamemnon's face.

 

"I've no intention to harm the girl, but I do think it wise to refrain from threatening the king. Godly skill or not, numbers always win."

 

The arrival of more guards is not lost on him, teeth gritting painfully as his fingers rest twitch with eager fury, barely suppressing the instinct to cut Agamemnon's head off right then and there. He's not afraid, he has never doubted his superiority in battle. Death will befall each man standing in this tent if he so chooses, but a sudden surge of energy halts his murderous thoughts as it pulses through his entire body before disappearing altogether, leaving behind only the sensation of embers simmering over the his heart. A part of him loathes that his mark somehow has saying in his decisions. The girl's newfound identity changes things drastically. There is no doubt that Agamemnon will use her as leverage. It remains to be seen if that strategy will be successful, the girl is under Achilles' protection after all.

 

"Do I have your support in the battle come morning?"

 

A definite refusal almost leaves his mouth, but he stops it before that can happen, pondering his options instead. The fool hasn't crossed the line with his antics yet, despite threading on said line the moment he involved the girl in their conversation. In truth, he has not reason to deny Agamemnon this victory. It would also be a lie to say that the prospect of meeting the eldest prince of Troy in battle isn't tempting. It's beyond that, and he detests the part of him that longs to see Hector.

 

"You have it, but, make no mistake, I am not one of your lackeys. You do not command me."

 

Neither utters a word as they stare each other down. He turns to leave before the king decides to force his hand again, soldiers stumbling aside as he exits the tent.

 

◇◇◇

 

Outside, the soldiers tremble and scramble out of his way out of instinct. He relishes their fear whilst he watches their encampment take form, the sun gradually setting on the horizon. He doesn't go back to his tent, his musings too chaotic to deal with the prince's cousin. Instead, he spends the hours left until night wandering the Trojan shore, feeling the soothing breeze and its saline aroma while golden rays drown into the sea. It's calming, yet it does nothing when it comes to the flashes of dark eyes plaguing his mind.

 

Glory seems to slowly lose its importance, and it would be concerning if not for how very alluring is the thought of touching his soulmate, heated skin on heated skin as they breathe each other in. The mere image of it makes his heart race.

 

He doesn't like it one bit.

 

By the time he finally goes back it's long past midnight, but Eudorus is still standing guard outside the tent, nodding in greeting. The man has no idea the true extent of Achilles' respect for him, and he will never know, at least not verbally. A strong hand rests on one slumped shoulder, grateful and reassuring.

 

"Dismissed."

 

With a slight bow, Eudorus leaves in an exhausted hurry, they have a battle to fight in the forenoon after all.

 

Inside, he finds the girl slumbering with her back against the post where he left her, body lax, face so peaceful that it almost gives the impression that she hasn't witnessed the brutal deaths of her fellow priests. How Agamemnon found about her identity is a mystery, but every king has his informants, so it is no surprise.

 

With silent steps he strides closer, one hand circling her shoulders while the other moves under her knees, picking her up like she weights nothing. In his arms, she seems even more fragile, her delicate form almost merging with his muscled frame. She lets out a content sigh the moment he lays her on the soft furs, brushing a strand of curly hair from her bruised face. In this moment, seeing her for who she is, her beauty, her wit, her courage, he thinks that, perhaps, in another world, the beast in him would have fallen in love with this extraordinary woman.

 

But... they aren't in another world, and his love is reserved for someone else, no matter how hard he's trying to fight destiny. In this world, his enemy is his soulmate. In this world, the gods laugh as they watch Greek and Trojan tiptoeing the edge of death, knowing they are fated, still attempting to resist. One in the name of his city, the other in the name of glory.

 

He doesn't sleep, the storm inside his head and heart keeping him awake until the first shy beam of sunlight peeks through morning skies.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agamemnon might seem kind of OOC, but I felt it right to alter thee dialogu, and add a more calculated side to him, rather than let him be the impulsive, pompous ass that he's in the movie. I hope it isn't a big inconvenience.
> 
> I intend to make the next chapter more dynamic, but, since I don't seem to manage a good updating schedule, it's hard to say when that next chapte will be posted.
> 
> P.S. I also made some adjustments to the first chapter's ending, I thought it necessary after re-reading it a few times.


	4. Θυσίες/Thysíes/Sacrifices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm... my hand slipped?
> 
> This one might be a bit chaotic, what with so many perspectives, but I tried giving the characters with less screentime or none at all (*cough* Hecuba) more depth than we've seen in the movie.  
>    
> Also, many thanks to etern the one person who constantly reads and comments! You're my rock!

Her muscles strain with great effort when the breastplate finally rests on her shoulders. The Trojan armour is loose, and heavy on her slender body, but, despite this, she is fairly confident in her ability to pose as a green boy, eager to prove himself in battle for the first time. It wasn't easy to sneak around the palace, and steal the armour. Quite a few guards patrol the grounds at night, but she _is_ the most beautiful woman in the world, after all, a little... _persuading_ wasn't too onerous to conduct, and it certainly wasn't difficult. What _had_ been difficult involved finding Briseis' chambers while carrying said armour. She had only been there once, the very night they arrived. A sad smile graces her lips... The girl had been so kind to her, such a beautiful soul, her laugh now haunting the very room she's hiding in. Briseis didn't deserve the fate that befell her...

 

The sound of trudging steps draws her back to reality, the complicated part of her plan just about to begin, grey-blue eyes watching on from the window as soldiers gather outside the palace, preparing to march towards the unknown with obscure odds. In complete opposition to the dark prospects of their future, the early morning sun paints the sky with its light, dunes of smooth sand almost glowing akin to gold in the distance. It seems almost mocking how bright it shines while death's scythe hangs over all of their necks. A heavy sigh leaves her lips... she caused this... she is weak... she can still hear the women's' lamentations as they watched their fathers, brothers... husbands die, but... what could she have done when the call of her soulmate had been so strong. She is human, she yearns for love, she needs her soulmate... God, she needs Paris like she needs air, and it's so damn frightening. A world without him... Helen can't imagine that. It's why she has to do this, why she chose to sacrifice herself along with a future together that, in hindsight, they have no chance of living.

 

It might be in vain... for Agamemnon is not here to wreak havoc simply because of her betrayal. She was never foolish enough to believe that. The man is here for power, and her return to Menelaus would do nothing to change the course of this war. Yet... the comfort of exempting Paris, just for a while longer, from Hades' grasp is something that gives her strength, something that makes her blood rush through her veins as she remembers the good old days spent under her father's tutelage. Tyndareus had been by no means a lenient teacher. No, the former king of Sparta had been a force of nature with or without a weapon in hand. He worked her to the bone, both physically, and mentally, lesson after lesson of types of weapons, and tactical thinking. Helen has never resented him for that, despite giving her to Menelaus. She knows that he did what he thought was best for her well-being... Oh, how he misses him... gone too soon, but fortunate not to see the disgrace she brought upon their lineage.

 

A woeful sigh leaves her lips then. With trembling hands, she puts the finishing touches to her tight, low bun before she finally lifts the helmet she's been holding for quite some time. It's almost suffocating once it adorn her head, but it's also refreshing, pleasant in the way that she no longer has to be the fragile queen everyone chooses to believe she is. By Athena's spear, she is a Spartan, and she will fight for what is right!

 

◇◇◇

 

Morning comes, and with it so does Hector's destiny. After a night of intense 'frolicking', followed by unyielding dreams of strong hands gripping his hips, and heated kisses burning his skin, the eldest prince of Troy is nothing if not restless. His armour seems to mock him from across the room, even as Andromache's fingers rest gently on his shoulder. Astyanax is eerily quite as well, giggles few and far between, seemingly sensing his parents' distress.

 

"You will not die today, Hector."

 

The conviction in his wife's voice is something he lacks entirely, for the first time in his life. How can he go to this war knowing he would have to kill his soulmate... or be killed by him instead... He wonders if the mighty Achilles is pondering over the same impasse. _"Perhaps not..."_ whispers his traitorous mind. His body might not meet its end, but his soul is slowly plummeting towards a dark abyss.

 

As if reading his thoughts, Andromache breaks the silence one more time "Why does your soulmate bring such torment upon you? Is he so cruel that he would rather see you dead than by his side?"

 

Brown eyes widen for a second "H-how did you..." he stops, a fond smile gracing dry lips. His wife is far more perceptive than she's given credit for. The lion on his chest is an essential clue to his soulmate's gender, apart from the fact that no women can be found on the battlefield, of course. Calloused fingers reach up to wrap around the delicate hand on his shoulder, squeezing it affectionately, his voice suddenly gone. He leans back, head cushioned against her bosom. This wonderful, strong beyond belief woman doesn't deserve to be put through these horrendous moments...

 

"Look at me." are her next words, soothing in their coaxing. When their gazes finally meet, a silent promise echoes loud, and clear, sealed with a kiss upon his forehead.

 

 _"Live"_ it said.

 

They stay likes this for a while longer before he forces himself to drag himself away from her welcoming warmth. His armour is ice against his heated skin, the metal akin to a weight pulling him under, drowning his soul in the turbid waters of the river Styx.

 

With a final kiss to his son's forehead, he opens the intricate doors, and steps outside his temporary oasis, determined to face the Moirai's games with everything in his mortal power.

 

◇◇◇

 

Watching the sun peek on the horizon has always been a mesmerising sight for Paris, no matter how many times he witnessed it after nightly escapades of pleasure. This time, the beauty of its warm light is lost on him, the hope often brought by dawn gone with the breeze. Today, the first sunshine that played on the sky struck fear, and palsy in his heart, the courage he so proudly vaunted merely hours ago fading more and more with each passing second.

 

It's early morning now. He closes his eyes, the sting of tears pulsing at the corners, tears that he refuses to let fall. The telltales of his white night haunt his thoughts, speaking of loneliness and cold tremors. He has waited for Helen, but she never came. The dove etched onto the thin skin of his left wrist simmered... it still does... so pure, so pained. He longs to embrace her one more time, to feel her silky hair under his touch, her gentle fingers caressing his face, to let his lips meet hers one last time, but he doesn't dare to ask that agony of her. Mayhap, it is better if they do not see each other before the Trojan army marches out the gates.

 

A solitary tear glides down his cheek as he puts on the helmet. Whether it is for the many things they left unsaid, for the love destined to be doomed or for his own impeding death... he isn't sure... but he will accept his fate with dignity if nothing else.

 

◇◇◇

 

In his old age, nothing seems to surprise Priam anymore... not even the foolishness of his own son. He had once been young too, petulant and impulsive, but he prided himself for his common sense and leveled headedness whenever they were needed. Wisdom comes with age, after all, with wars and decisions, life and death. Somehow, neither of those aspects brought Paris closer to a sagacious judgement, and, for that, they are all paying.

 

Hecuba is the one blaming herself most. If she were a strict mother perhaps Paris would have understood the consequences of his actions, would have been more prudent. What his wife doesn't want to believe is that their youngest son would have become like this regardless of their efforts. It is in his nature. For in opposition to Hecuba's kindness, Priam always favoured hard work, training, strength where there was weakness, punishment where there was insolence, yet nothing changed Paris' hedonistic views, and they've eventually learned to accept him.

 

Perhaps, this war would have remained latent longer if not for his son. Perhaps, Agamemnon would have decided to declare it anyway, with or without reason. They will never know, but they can certainly hope that today is not the day both of their sons die.

 

◇◇◇

 

Hector holds his head high as he marches out the gates, sunlight blinding him for an instant before he regains focus. Beside him, Paris trembles slightly, almost unnoticeable for those who do not pay attention well enough. Neither speaks, looking ahead, lost in their own tornadoes of doubts.

 

From afar, he feels _those_ piercing eyes burn right through him, soulmark pulsing on his skin with more and more intensity as they get closer. They stop a few feet away, waiting for the Greeks to leave the safety of their chariots. When they do, the princes finally dismount in one smooth motion. He doesn't dare to look directly at the man who stands between Odysseus and Ajax, focusing on Agamemnon and Menelaus instead. He can barely control the sneer threatening to part his lips. The elder brother's mere presence makes his insides churn with fury even before the king opens his mouth to insult them.

 

"I see you're not hiding behind your high walls..." the pause almost gives him hope that the Mycenaean king would stop there. No such luck "Valiant of you... Ill-advised, but valiant."

 

All eyes are on him, studying his reaction. Diplomacy has always been his strong suit, aside from fighting, of course, yet this time there is not sugar-coating his words.

 

"You come here uninvited. Go back to your ships, and go home."

 

Except for Menelaus, who has his eyes trained on Paris, the other kings' expressions are unreadable. Achilles is a whole other story. The prince risks a glance. Amusement along hint of admiration lights up blue orbs. It makes his heart skip a beat. He dreads his body's response, mind somewhere in-between contentment and guilt.

 

Menelaus' demeaning voice draws his attention in a flash "Prince? What prince? What son of a king would accept a man's hospitality, eat his food, drink his wine, place him in friendship, and then steal his wife in the middle of the night!?!"

 

His little brother replies before Hector has the chance to stop him "The sun was shining when your wife left you."

 

The Spartan kind is quick to draw his sword, no doubts overpowering his intent to kill the younger prince of Troy. Hector's hand moves instinctively to mirror the man's action, the inherent need to protect his brother clouding his mind for an instant before he reins in his anger. From the corner of his eye, he sees the Myrmidon's lips quirk slightly into an appreciative smile, the

 

"She's up there watching, isn't she?" Paris couldn't answer this question even if he wanted to. Maybe she is... maybe she's not... it's painful either way "Good. I want her to watch you die."

 

If fear had a smell, the entire area would have reeked of it, no matter how hard Paris is trying to school his features into a composed facade. Hector sees right through him, and so do the other warriors, tension rising in the air like a storm brewed by Zeus himself. For a brief moment, it seems like Menelaus will strike Paris then and there, but, suddenly, a hand clasps the king's forearm. Agamemnon.

 

"Not yet, brother."

 

Then, in a show of superiority, the elder brother steps closer, boasting words meant to intimidate "Look around you, Hector. I brought all the warriors of Greece to your shores."

 

The look of distaste on Achilles' face is not lost on Hector. Neither is the almost imperceptible twitch of hard muscles as they tense further, driven by the urge to kill Agamemnon for even implying that the Myrmidon was brought by _him_ , is _fighting_ for him. Well... at least they have something in common, the strong enmity towards this man. He can hear someone speak, but his eyes never leave Agamemnon's.

 

"I have two wishes. If you grant them, no more of your people need die. Perhaps you will even get your cousin back. She's quite a beauty that one."

 

He cannot stop the shock from showing on his face. Briseis!? Briseis is alive!? How dare he speak of her like this! The prince doesn't miss Achilles' barely suppressed snarl, right hand in the process of reaching for the sword on his back before he manages to get his fury under control. So, his soulmate met her... how very peculiar... Strangely enough, this knowledge gives him a sense of peace, filling him with relief at the certainty that someone has been protecting her all this time. Taking a deep breath, he lets the king continue, despite already knowing the outcome. 

 

"First, you must give Helen back to my brother. Second, Troy must submit to my command, to fight for me whenever I call."

 

Those demands are really no surprise. However, he's not sure if Agamemnon voiced them to simply give it a try or if he actually thought he would agree to such a thing. Either way, he is already at his limit, the point of no return in his patience. Curious stares watch him carefully, one, in particular, showing some kind of certainty that perhaps only a soulmate can display, not taking into consideration Odysseus' knowing look, the man always seems to predict the future.

 

"You want me to look upon your army, and tremble?" a pause for good effect "Well, I see them. I see fifty thousand men brought here to fight for one man's greed." He makes sure to peer right into the king's soul, promises of defeat darkening his eyes.

 

"Careful, boy, my mercy has limits."

 

He doesn't hesitate "And I've seen the limits of your mercy... and I tell you now. No son of Troy will ever submit to a foreign ruler.

 

Neither does Agamemnon "Then every son of Troy shall die."

 

They stare each other down for a while longer before they turn around, but not before Hector's eyes meet Achilles'. The Greek lion has been strangely quiet throughout the whole ordeal, indecipherable apart from the few emotions he let slip. It is no different now, an emotionless wall protecting the warrior from any sentimental intrusion.

 

Hector breaks eye contact first, turning his back to such a lethal killer in order to follow his brother, something in the deepest corners of his mind nagging at him with every step he takes.

 

◇◇◇

 

It all happens in a blur. Paris' fight then Paris' expected defeat, followed by an arrow embedding right into Menelaus' head while the younger prince clung to his brother's legs like a child hiding behind his mother's skirt. Hector had no chance to see who shot the arrow before the shouts of battle drown everything around him in their potency.

 

"For Troy!"

 

The eyes never leave him, following his every movement even as he's knocked off his horse and gets lost in the bloodbath tarnishing Trojan sand, even as he concentrates on taking down the giant Greek while evading the man's equally giant hammer. They observe, cold, calculating yet... at the same time, proud and brimming with utmost appreciation. How he knows, he is not sure, he simply does. He doesn't dare to search for Achilles in this chaos, doesn't want to further confirm emotions that he knows are already too real to be simply overlooked. It's distracting enough to slow him down, brain barely cooperating with his reflexes as his head snaps to the side with the force of a brutal blow.

 

◇◇◇

 

It is surprisingly enthralling to watch the Trojan prince fight. Not because of the man's style of combat which, despite having a distinct grace to it, is not something that the Myrmidon hasn't seen before, but because of the sheer strength and fierceness driving it. In the time that he beheld negotiations, his interest in the Trojan prince has only grown, in spite of his efforts to ignore it. What is even more frustrating is that he can feel his subconscious working against him, trying to keep him away from Hector. How can his luck be so twisted that he has the very commander of the Trojan army as his soulmate...

 

Lost in thought, he fights automatically, blade sinking into flesh as if the Gods control it while his mind is somewhere else entirely. He doesn't realise how he gradually gets nearer and nearer to the man his instincts try desperately to both avoid, and bring closer. 

 

◇◇◇

 

As fate would have it, he does not fall, no, instead, he regains his focus and charges. In vain, the giant Greek gains the upper hand quickly, wringing Hector with the hammer while the prince's sword slashes through his own armour. Confident in his superiority in battle, the giant isn't prepared for the crack of skull against skull, the prince's head connecting his face.

 

From there, it doesn't take long for Hector to turn the confrontation in his favour, spear sinking deep into his opponent's abdomen. A sudden flash of gold stops his sword from joining it as he jumps away from what would have surely been a fatal wound. Brown meets blue yet again, and both pairs of widen. For mere moments, there's only the two of them in the world, every sound and face drowned out as they bare their souls. Hector blinks, and reality comes crashing down on them. The battle does not halt, soldiers continue butchering one another anyhow, but they know that all the important stares are on them.

 

They do not speak, circling each other instead, assessing form and poise, strengths and weaknesses, like two felines waiting for the right moment to pounce. When they do, it's at the same time, quick and brutal as their blades clash before springing away. He barely dodges the strike aiming for his neck, countering with a powerful one of his own, followed by another and another, each meeting the metal of Achilles' shield.

 

Breathing becomes harder and harder the longer they fight, the prince's previous confrontation with Ajax taking its toll. A slash to the cheek confirms that he can't keep this up for much longer. Putting all of his strength behind a new chain of strikes, he manages to push his opponent back into a stumble, vulnerable for mere seconds as the Greek shield swings to the side. An opening. Hector seizes it, but his sword doesn't reach far enough to cut through the armour.

 

There's a time gap where they simply look at each other, an arched eyebrow and a smirk appearing on his foe's chiseled face. It doesn't last, and, soon, he finds himself pelted with blow after blow after blow until a deep gash is marring his right thigh. It's bleeding profusely, life slowly slipping away whilst he's struggling to stand. He evades and jumps, he twists and turns, he bends and he rolls into the dirt.

 

In vain. He can't. Not anymore.

 

Strained legs give out under him, and he falls to his knees. Black shadows dance across his vision as he slowly lifts his eyes, looking, actually looking, for the first time, at the man foredoomed to be his soulmate. He can't help but smile at the pain he sees there. Achilles is most likely unaware how very clearly it's painting his face, though still repressed enough for their spectators to miss it. Hector is not smiling at the Greek's sorrow, he doesn't enjoy it, he doesn't revel in it. He merely laughs at the irony of it all, the bitterness of their fate.

 

When he sees deft fingers grip the weapon tighter, in an attempt to suppress the tremor threatening to show, he looks one last time towards the walls of try, images of the life he had flashing before his eyes. Andromache, Astyanax, Paris, Briseis... mother... father... Pain courses through his body when his soulmate's blade finally sinks into his chest, brown eyes closing as he lets darkness pull him into its embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Moirai are white-robed incarnations of destiny, according to Wikipedia.


	5. Nέα λύση/Néa lýsi/New resolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I'm so horrible at explaining things... this probably makes no sense at all, but thank God there is this life saving concept called "the greek gods are always messing around, helping people at the most unlikely times." 
> 
> This story got kind of chaotic, especially because I want to show too many perspectives, but I just can't give up on that idea. Next chapter should be more... realistic? I don't even know where I'm going with this :))

Troy wins, but with great losses, their only hope gone too soon. What brought the odds in their favour was the fact that Agamemnon's army had been too close to the city walls, giving the Trojan archers the opening they needed to eradicate a significant part of their enemy's forces. Not the most important one, though, for the Myrmidons kept their distance, Achilles being the only exception to get in the midst of chaos. With Ajax gravely injured, it had been enough for the Greeks to retreat.

 

At this point, it is no longer about winning the war, it is about survival, about living to see another day. Their chances to defeat the Greeks in the next battle are slim, if they even exist at all...

 

"Do not lie to a man who has just watched his son die. We saw him die. _I_ saw him fall at the hands of the enemy."

 

Helen can understand the king's skepticism to her claims, but she was _there_ , out on the battlefield, barely reaching Hector in time. Adrenaline ablaze in her muscles, she forced herself to the limit in order to stop the Greek lions from making the grievous mistake in his life. Aside from Andromache, who has probably realised Achilles is her husband's soulmate the moment she saw him, Helen might be the only one aware of that reality, and she prides herself on her ability to perceive everything around her. It is a skill she has easily developed from childhood up until her life began to consist of sitting quietly by Menelaus' side, silent and observant.

 

Her encounter with the warrior is clear, and still so fresh in her mind.

 

◇◇◇

 

_Far, she's so far away, closer to the city walls than the maelstrom of the battle. Her legs are on fire as she urges herself to run faster, fingers tightly gripping the bow that ended Menelaus' life. Around her, the fight rages on, seemingly without anyone noticing the figure sprinting across the field. It's as if she's being protected by the gods. With renewed vigour she speeds up, reducing even more the distance between her and the now losing prince._

 

_Still, it isn't enough. She watches Hector fall to his knees, all strength gone from his body while his opponent readies his blade for the final strike. She doesn't stop running, bow and arrow steadily held in her hands as she aims, recurves then releases. The arrow pierces through the Greek's forearm, his attention instantly snapping in her direction, narrowed blue orbs accompanied by a visible sneer. It buys her the time to make a last effort to save Hector, only a few feet separating them now._

 

_Bow warped and tense, trained on the blond man's head, she approaches with cautious steps, standing tall beside the fallen prince. Grey-blue eyes follow the Myrmidon's movements whilst he pulls the arrow from his flesh without the slightest reaction to the pain it must have caused. He doesn't say anything when he finally looks at her. She decides to speak first._

 

_"I know I am no match for you, but I will do everything in my power to save him."_

 

_The fierceness in her tone seems to entice his curiosity, one brow arching elegantly as he studies every inch of her before he asks "Helen of Sparta. I've never imagined I will find a woman on the battlefield, least of all you." he pauses to look down at the trembling prince before turning his attention back to her "Why are you so willing to give your life for this man? Is he worth your sacrifice?"_

 

_It comes as no surprise that he already knows who she is. Still... it is rather baffling, but it doesn't deter her from standing her ground._

 

_"This man is worth so much more than my life. He is a good man... an honourable one. Not only did he not sell me back to Menelaus, but he protected his brother knowing very well what that will bring upon Troy." a few moments pass by while they stare at each other "If you kill him, we won't be the only ones doomed."_

 

_He doesn't hesitate to reply "What makes you believe my enemy is of such importance to me?"_

 

_His voice is the epitome of apathy, yet his eyes cannot lie, despite the passive expression on his face. His eyes are trying in vain to hide the shadow of regret, but she can see it so very clearly, that inner turmoil of his, the same turmoil she had the night she left Sparta._

 

_"We both know the reason. Do not deny fate. Do not lie to yourself... not when he lays dying at your feet."_

 

_The silence is deafening as it tunes out the howls of agony booming around them. She isn't prepared for the quick motion that thrusts the sword right into Hector's chest. The scream that tears through her throat is so shrill that it can summon Hades himself, the dead rising with him from the Underworld._

 

 _"Back to the ships!" comes Agamemnon's from afar, soon amplified by the soldiers' shouts_ _"Retreat!_ _Fall baaack! Fall back!!!"_

 

_None of that takes her gaze of off the man in front of her, legs barely holding her weight while she watches him throw the prince over his shoulder like a rag doll. Then, a stallion as black as the darkest night comes galloping through the crowd of running soldiers, a beast sent by Ares no doubt. It stop right before the Myrmidon. He hauls the prince on its back before jumping onto the saddle._

 

_"You were right. I won't deny fate, but I will deny the Trojans their victory. Go, queen of Sparta. Tell them that defeat awaits the city."_

 

◇◇◇

 

Getting back inside the city walls had been easier than one would expect, what with thee Greeks already clearing out. The difficult part had been to explain why she was in the combat zone in the first place, but that paled in comparison to her avowal of Hector's survival.

 

"Father, please, listen to her."

 

"No, Paris! I welcomed this woman into out city knowing very well how cursed she is. Your brother knew that when he chose to bring her here, when he chose your love for each other at the expense of our lives. And that brought him his doom. I will not hearr another word from her."

 

"But, f-"

 

"Enough!"

 

Silence falls in throne room, sorrowful and heavy. From her spot beside the throne, she sees the pained expression on Priam's face as he brings his hand to his forehead. He doesn't look at her, nor does he throw a glance at Paris. They both take this as their cue to leave, the clink of their steps bouncing off the walls while they slowly fade away.

 

In hindsight, the conclusion she came to after hearing Achilles' words is rather rash, but what else could he have meant by not denying fate... Why would he take the lifeless body of a soulmate he never accepted? Her heart is telling her that Hector's still alive, and her heart never fails to sense the truth.

 

 

◇◇◇

 

Hector wakes up to tender fingers carding through his hair as cool droplets of water trickle down his face. Every muscle in his body burns.  _Breathing_ burns. The pounding in his head is almost unbearable, and the urge to simply give in to the darkness calling him back is strong, but, despite the pain, he slowly opens his eyes. It takes quite some time for his vision to adjust, the sudden stream of light that filters through his pupils blinding him for more than a few seconds. Then, the world is a blur specked with shades of black that gradually turn to colour, and take form. Soon, Briseis' worried face comes into focus, tears staining her rosy cheeks while a relieved smile begins to brighten dainty features.

 

Suddenly, there is no pain or burn or throbbing in his skull. Each fiber and cell in his body sets into motion on their own accord, reaching out to pull her into an embrace. She meets him halfway, arms circling his neck as she brushes her lips against the hollow of his temple. Burying his nose into her hair, he inhales the familiar, soothing scent, a single tear falling from the corner of his eye. His arms tighten around her, pulling her closer... as if she'll disappear if he lets go.

 

"Y-you're a-alive! You're ali-ive..." she sobs into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He's not aware they're not alone until he hears a muffled shuffle. With great care, he disentangles her arms from around him, and pulls away, hands resting on her shoulders as he leans closer to press his lips to her forehead.

 

Another shuffle.

 

This time, his head turns in the direction of the sound, completely unprepared for the sight that greets him. There, not far enough for his comfort, stands the very same man who nearly drove a sword into his heart, the other half of his destiny. As if on cue, his soulmark tingles with a warmth he hasn't felt before. His lungs almost stop working. From his peripheral vision, he can see Briseis hold her own breath, most likely anticipating a quarrel since he is in no condition to fight. Brown eyes narrow, lean muscles tensing under tanned skin. The change doesn't go unnoticed, a slight tilt to one corner of the Greek's full lips proving that every move he makes is attentively monitored.

 

Finally, his cousin decides to intervene "You're safe, cousin. He brought you here."

 

They continue to stare at each other for a while longer before he heaves out an exhausted sigh, all energy suddenly leaving him. With a pained groan, he slumps back against the soft furs of the makeshift bed. _"Achilles'_ _bed"_ his mind snickers.

 

Tracing the patterns on the tent's ceiling, he speaks at last "You could have easily killed me. Why am I still breathing?"

 

The question has no bite, lacking the cutting edge he intended to use. It is no doubt that, if Achilles wanted to kill the prince, he would now be crossing the Styx with the ferryman Háron. A part of him wishes to believe that, deep down, in the darkest crevices of the warrior's soul there _is_ an empty space reserved for him. But then again, their soulmates status has been of little relevance from the moment they met, both refusing to succumb to a fate they've never wanted. The rational half is sure this is some kind of plot, a strategy to make Priam yield... if he hasn't already. A pang of guilt strikes him at this thought... He  _failed_. He failed his father... he failed his men, his people... Andromache... he failed _Troy_.

 

He gets no answer, only a beguiling command "Rest, prince." that, just like the day they first met, resounds in his head even after his eyes are long closed, chest rising and falling with the murmurs of sleep.


	6. Aποκαλύψεις/Apokalýpseis/Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! It seems inspiration hasn't left me yet, but I don't know how pleased I am with where this is going. This chapter is rather void of dialogue, but I hope that my intention to create a silent connection between them has been realised with success. Enjoy and leave your feedback in the comments! Hugs!

When Hector wakes up again, it's dark, pupils adjusting with a tad of difficulty to the absence of light. Briseis is sound asleep beside him, holding his hand surprisingly tightly for someone dwelling in the world of dreams. They're alone. It's quiet, peaceful even, despite the knowledge that he is in enemy territory. The throbbing in his head is now only a dull ache, constantly there, but bearable. His tongue feels like sandpaper in his dry mouth, body straining to function properly without its vital resources while waves of pain pulse arrhythmically through every muscle. On his chest, his soulmark prickles, drawing his attention. Without meaning or wanting to, his mind provides him instantly with the image of his soulmate. Why save him after they clearly settle for being solely foes, and nothing more? Troy is already weakened beyond recovery without him... there is no point in negotiating with his father when the Greeks can take the city so easily... Unless...

 

A soft rustle brings him out of his musings, soon followed by the very man who did nothing but torment him morning, noon, and night from the moment they met. They briefly stare at each other, Aegean blues peering right into his soul before he averts his eyes, the tent's ceiling unexpectedly fascinating.

 

"I see you're awake."

 

Simply hearing the Myrmidon's soft baritone makes his heartbeat stutter, sending shivers up and down his spine. Lips set in a firm line, his attention drifts to the table in the far corner, anything to keep him occupied instead of engaging into a conversation he has absolutely to strength or patience to sustain. There's only silence, for a while, and it almost seems that Achilles has left until the sound of something being poured reaches his ears. Soon, the Greek stands above him, holding a cup of water as he crouches beside him.

 

With shocking gentleness, a strong hand cradles the back of his head, lifting it towards the bronze cup "Drink."

 

Warning bells ring in his head, deafening in their desperate attempt to protect him, yet it is something rather irrational to even think that he'd be poisoned after he survived such a gruesome battle. Still refusing to fully acknowledge Achilles' presence, he shuts his eyes, leaning up slightly. The water is pleasantly cold, refreshing as it slides down his parched throat. He didn't realise how truly thirsty he was until now.

 

Once the last drop of water leaves the cup, he lays back down, the hand at his nape gone, but the Greek lion still hunched over him, staring unabashedly, assessing, _studying_. The prince squirms under the intense gaze, uncomfortable and, suddenly, very hot. It becomes irritating after a while, but he resists the urge to snap at the man. When it becomes too much, he finally decides to speak, voice raspy from the lack of use.

 

"Thank you."

 

A faint flinch seems to break the Myrmidon out of his trance, followed by a slight nod in response. He watches Achilles rise to his feet, weary eyes trailing peculiarly graceful movements. When the fastenings securing the man's chestplate come undone, he turns his head away, but not before catching a glimpse of the sculpted torso. His mouth goes dry yet again, a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks as he looks at Briseis' sleeping face. Then, a sharp clink echoes in the night, and he assumes it's from the armour.

 

He is wrong.

 

The tap of something wet against his neck makes him jolt, deft fingers closing around the Greek's wrist in an instant, fiery brown clashing with icy blue. It doesn't take long for him to notice the rag in Achilles' hand. After a moment, he lets go, heaving out a sigh.

 

"It's not... it's not necessary..."

 

Despite his words, the tender touches continue, washing away remnants of blood, grime and sweat. Hector is soon forced to turn his head more towards the Myrmidon as he reaches out to clean the other side of the prince's face. He realises what a grave mistake he made when his eyes linger once more on the exposed skin of the warrior's toned abdomen. Taking a shaky breath, he lets his gaze wander up to Achilles' chiseled features. Blue orbs narrowed in concentration, contrasting with golden locks, bottom lip set in what can only be called a pout while muscles tense under bronze skin with even the slightest move, the man is the spitting image of a god. To say that he isn't enjoying the idea of having such a soulmate would be a lie. To say that he isn't wondering how all that rippling power would feel above him would be an even bigger lie. Still... they are enemies... he can't renounce his dignity, his principles... he can't fail Troy more that he already did.

 

Lost in thought, he isn't aware that the caresses stopped until his senses catch up to the feeling of being stared at. His breath hitches in surprise at the fire burning in the Greek's eyes, bright and consuming, as if it will swallow him whole if he looks for too long. By the time he comes to himself, it's too late, the question is already out of his mouth.

 

"Why?"

 

Over the roar of blood ringing in his ears, and his heart racing in his chest, he hates how pathetic he sounds, desperate for an answer, no matter what that might be.

 

"The gods are playing a game I myself cannot understand, prince."

 

Hector's reply is instant, perhaps"even affronted "The gods had nothing to do with it, and you know it!" Briseis stirs beside him before she settles on her side, facing away. He lowers his voice as he continues "You could have easily pushed that sword right through my heart. Why didn't you?"

 

◇◇◇

 

It is rather endearing how demanding the prince turns out to be. Incapacitated, and bed-ridden as he is, not many would dare to address Achilles in such a manner, knowing his fearsome reputation, but it seems that the impulsive call of honour runs in the family. It reminds him of the sleeping girl beside the Trojan, both foolishly brave, and self-righteous.

 

Back on the battlefield, he was so sure that his ultimate decision was to kill the prince, and be done with all this soulmate nonsense. It was a mistake to think that. His resolve weakened the moment their eyes met, each successful hit he landed making his heart ache, and his soulmark burn in punishment. But it didn't matter, he was prepared to do what was necessary, prepared to take the life of his own soulmate. He remembers the hollow laugh that echoed in his mind, the irony of fighting in this war for glory, yet, at the same time, destroying the future that many dream of, but can never have.

 

His grip trembled on the blade when Hector fell to his knees, the wave of both physical, and emotional pain coursing through his body almost bringing him down as well. Then, Helen arrived. He recognised her before she spoke, only a true Spartan woman would venture in combat, bold, and bent on protecting the Trojan even if it meant sacrificing herself. It made him wonder why... why is this man worthy of such an immolation... Hector is a killer just like him, what makes them so different, what about this man calls for the reverential words he's heard from generals, soldiers, kings that never even met the tamer of horses in person. Looking back on their first encounter, he can't repudiate the admiration he held for the man. Spirited, quick-witted, and skilled, Hector had been a sight to behold as he spilt blood in the Temple of Apollo. The feeling only grew with the first simmer of his mark under the armour.

 

_"If you kill him, we won't be the only ones doomed."_

 

The former queen of Sparta wasn't wrong, his mother's words mingling with hers. Thetis told him of the choice he'd have to make, but he didn't have any doubts before he left Larissa. It was glory or nothing at all. Fate proved him wrong. Somewhere along the way, he began to yearn for the bond they shared despite their resistance, and that made it all the more agonising when his sword cut through flesh, and bone. He couldn't do it... he couldn't kill him...

 

From there, everything was a rush to keep Hector alive without letting anyone notice that the prince wasn't actually dead. His only option had been Briseis, and his own experience with critical wounds. Fortunately, it seems to have been enough for the prince to retain his gumption. Perhaps that is what attracts him the most...

 

"Because you interest me."


	7. Tο καθήκον και τη μοίρα/To kathíkon kai ti moíra/Duty and Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's me again, the one who is a disappointment when it comes to a regular updating schedule :)) I wish you all a Happy New Year, and great achievements, lots of love, and endless health! Do your best this year, and in the years to come!
> 
> Back to updating now. Fortunately, it seems that I am successful in my the one week update intiative. I hope to be able to maitain it until this story comes to an end (I don't really know when that will be).
> 
> This chapter introduces some new characters, I got a bit too lost in mythological elements, but I think it gives the story an interesting turn that I hope you'll like.
> 
> As always, comments are more than welcome! Hugs!

"Your brother is dead because of his own foolishness."

 

"How dare you speak to Lord Agamemnon in this manner!?!"

 

Nestor's voice is bordering on an irritating crescendo, especially in the silence that fell instantly after Odysseus' statement. Short of two members, one dead, the other gravely wounded, Agamemnon's interim council of kings has been summoned to strategise their next move. Their first attempt to do so had been an utter debacle,The Greek army has been defeated, but it hasn't suffered many losses, compared to the Trojans. However, they are weakened on another level, seeing that, with Menelaus dead, the Spartans must fight without their most trusted leader, morale low, suspicions high, and it is no trivial matter that Ajax might just be on his death-bed as well. Two valuable allies lost in one day for what? For the arrogance of one man who considers himself the king of the world. Odysseus' patience has its limits.

 

"Be careful, King Nestor, even the most tolerant of men is able to take just so much."

 

The tension is so thick that it seems almost palpable as the King of Ithaka outfaces the King of Pylos who, after a short while, breaks eye contact, shrinking back into his mockery of a regal seat to look at Agamemnon for support.

 

He gets it.

 

"Enough of this squabbling. We have more important matters to discuss, such as the reason for our defeat shouldn't have lost... not with the Greek lion on our side."

 

If the atmosphere was fraught before, now it is positively crackling, the derisive undercurrent of Agamemnon's words obvious to everyone present. It worsens when the Myrmidon steps forward from his standing spot beside the Ithakan to openly glare at the Mycenaean king. Odysseus doesn't particularly enjoy this kind of direct confrontations, he prefers a more veiled approach, yet he can't help but feel a hint of satisfaction at the nearly imperceptible gleam of fear flashing in Agamemnon's eyes.

 

"I offered my aid in battle, but I did not pledge my men's lives so that your vainglory may triumph. The only one responsible for this failure is you."

 

They all knew how the duel was going to end, Paris didn't represent a challenge for Menelaus, but the eldest prince of Troy was certainly not one to abandon a brother in need. The outbreak of battle had been inevitable. Thus, before the fateful meeting between enemies, both he and Achilles advised the man to keep the troops as far away from the city walls as possible, Trojan archers aren't meant to be trifled with after all. Evidently, Agamemnon did not listen, and that resulted in a significant number of casualties.

 

"You have the audacity to accuse me!? I should have you whipped for your impudence!"

 

"Perhaps you don't require my support after all." replies the Myrmidon, sharp, defiant, with a tone of indisputable finality as he begins to walk away.

 

This time, they let him.

 

◇◇◇

 

"Cousin, cousin! Hector, can you hear me?"

 

It's strange how fast life can change its course. If someone told her weeks ago that she will soon tend to her half-dead cousin in the tent of his Greek soulmate who happens to be Achilles himself, she would have laughed, and waved it off. The prospect of death was less shocking, at the time. Now, however, everything is so peculiar that only Apollo materialising before her eyes would be astonishing. And, oh, how helpful that would be in their current situation.

 

She woke up to Hector's solid presence, warm and comforting beside her, threatening to lure her back to sleep. There was no one in the tent except the two of them, Achilles probably already out and about with his brutish duties. For all the unexpected kindness he had shown her, the man still lacked humanity, even more so after he ran his blade through his own soulmate. When he came back, carrying Hector's limp body in his arms, she had been furious, thinking him to be dead. Then, at the revelation of his beating heart, relief washed over her along with a whit of gratefulness towards the man responsible for inflicting Hector's wound in the first place. They didn't speak, and she refused to look at the Myrmidon more than necessary as she set to work. He left soon after.

 

The gash was deep, it certainly still is, but she somehow managed to stop the bleeding, and dress the wound to the best of her ability. After that, all she could do was watch Hector's chest rise, and fall until the sun drowned into the sea, rays of twilight painting the sky's clear canvas. Not long after, he woke, and she couldn't be happier, tears trickling down her cheeks before he even had the time to recognise her. Everything after that is, more or less, a blur. She doesn't remember falling asleep beside Hector, but the ghost of a tender touch lingers.

 

Back to the matter at hand, as soon as her fuzzy mind, and senses stabilised themselves, she realised that Hector isn't just warm, he's burning up. Nimble fingers move quicker than ever to unwrap the bandage around the prince's chest. It's difficult with him lying down, and she ends up ripping most of it with a strength that surprises even herself. Underneath, the wound doesn't seem to be festering. In fact, it's the opposite, it almost looks healed, something positively impossible without divine intervention...

 

◇◇◇

 

_It's... peaceful, this white oblivion he's been floating in, quiet, and tranquil as it envelops him in its warmth, taking away the pain that's eating at him both physically, and mentally. He isn't prepared for the thunderous, yet somewhat benevolent voice that suddenly echoes around him._

 

_"I did not think mortals like you exist anymore, prince Hector. Many centuries have passed since the last time I felt such a pure, and honourable heart."_

 

_Swallowing the newly formed lump in his throat, he looks around cautiously, hoping to discover where is the voice coming from. No such luck, it's an endless abyss, void of life, and colour. When he finally musters up the courage to speak, his tone is remarkably steady._

 

_"Who are you? Where am I?"_

 

_"I have been watching over you from the moment you were born. I have protected you. I have fought Ares himself to defend, and nurture the city most devoted to me. Your people have sung prayers, and praises to me for centuries, and they will continue to do so for many more if **you** listen to your heart now."_

 

_Confusion must be written all over his face because a booming laugh follows the short silence that fell upon them "Oh, Hector, how you continue to deny fate at every turn. It has taken you far away from where you were meant to be. Do not worry, you will soon realise what I mean. For now, I will grant you another chance at life. Do not waste it, lest the Moirai turn their wrath upon you even in the Underworld."_

 

_With these last words ringing in his ears, he stares into nothingness as white gradually fades into black, eyelids getting heavier, and heavier until they close, and he is once again lost to the world._

 

◇◇◇

 

When Achilles returns to his tent, he isn't prepared for the sight that greets him. Face buried in the prince's bare chest, Briseis is sobbing uncontrollably, a mantra of orisons, and pleas spilling from her lips as she clutches bloody bandages. Then, he sees it. Hectors's chest isn't moving. He isn't _breathing_.

 

Against his better judgement, he rushes to kneel on the Trojan's other side, hands grasping her clenched fists "How did this happen?" he asks, a pang of something incomprehensible making his heart ache, uncharacteristic panic so very clear in his tone. He pushes this reality to the back of his mind.

 

She cries harder.

 

Reaching out to brush away a dark curl stuck to the prince's damp forehead, he takes in a deep breath. No sooner had his fingers touched heated skin than he pulled his hand back quickly. For a few moments, his eyes stay transfixed on his palm, inspecting an imaginary burn mark. Hector's skin isn't just fervid, it is _burning_ to the point it feels like a blazing flame. Something definitely isn't right. As if to confirm his inference, his soulmark suddenly sends a searing wave of pain through his entire body, a deep groan flies past his lips, teeth grinding so hard that they might just crack.

 

"Achilles!" he hears Briseis' aghast voice "Achilles!" but his senses are completely out of focus. He feels her hand gripping his bicep, followed by another shout then, it's quiet, the world swallowed by dark.

 

◇◇◇

 

_A soft tune disturbs the Stygian quietude embracing him, intimate and comforting as his senses remain dormant. Little by little, the tune grows more limpid, words accompanying its melodious notes._

 

 _"When I am laid, am laid in earth, May my wrongs create_  
_No trouble, no trouble in thy breast;_  
_Remember me, remember me, but ah! forget my fate._  
_Remember me, but ah! forget my fate."_

 

_When Hector opens his eyes, all he sees is blinding white again for mere moments before his eyes regain focus. Above him the sky or what he assumes to be the sky is grey, a dull, uniform, unchanging grey. Carefully, he pushes himself into a sitting position, head spinning despite the deliberately slow movement. He's on a boat, ripples of flowing water rocking it gently to and fro akin to a silent lullaby. His blurry vision clears after a short while, and that's when he notices the hooded figure standing quite close to him whilst it rows the boat with its back turned._

 

_**"Kharon"** his mind provides._

 

_"Ah, you have awoken, at last."_

 

_The ferryman's voice resembles that of a weary old man, raspy and slightly quivering while he lifts the pole to propel the boat before he speaks again._

 

_"I can see now why Apollo favours you, young one. Your heart is as unalloyed alive as it is dead, prince of Troy, yet... it is torn, and sorrowed... incomplete."_

 

_This time, Hector doesn't hesitate to reply "My duty for Troy, for my people, always comes first."_

 

_"Yes, little one, but what of your soul? Do you not think yourself worthy of respite, of finding what you are missing?"_

 

_As soon as it lit up, the prince's belligerent fire dies down, a deafening silence falling between them as he stares at his hands, clenched into fists in his lap._

 

_"Look around you, child, the dead are singing out to you. Would you choose death, knowing that you have fulfilled your duty, or would you risk another endeavor at life, knowing that your duty might come second in your heart?"_

 

_If someone asked him this question a few weeks ago, he would have been certain of his answer. Now... blue eyes flash in his mind, and it all seems so relative, so unpredictable... Almost like it wanted to prove him right, his soulmark abruptly comes to life, flickering weakly on his chest as it sends tingles of warmth through his cold body... cold... Only now does he apprehend how icy his skin is, its colour as grey as the sky above them. Soft murmurs draw his attention then, and he lifts his gaze to look in the direction of the sound. He freezes when light-grey orbs meet countless other pairs, familiar faces standing out in the endless crowd._

 

_"Tsk, tsk, no matter." he hears from the side, eyes snapping back to the boatman now facing him, long grizzled beard grazing the wooden floor of the boat. A serene smile lifts the wrinkled corners of his lips as he looks at Hector with irises the colour of blazing fire, red and gold dancing around pitch-black pupils "You will decide soon."_

 

_Water suddenly floods the boat, shadow hands emerging from its turbulent depths, grabbing at his legs, his arms, his head, pulling him under._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kharon is the ferryman who "escorts" (ha, ha) the dead over the river Styx. Also, I took the lyrics from Dido's Lament, the aria "When I am laid in earth" from the opera Dido and Aeneas by Henry Purcell. It felt like a nice, and eerie touch to add a song into that dull dimension. 
> 
> On another note, I have re-read the previous chapters, and I'm wondering if my characterisations aren't a bit or a bit more off. Initially, I thought they were all right, but I'm starting to have a few doubts, despite the fact that no one complained about any character being OOC. It might just be my far too self-critical side.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! 
> 
> P.S. I WILL give titles to these chapters even if it's the last thing I do!


	8. Kατανόηση/Katanóisi/Understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! It's 5:14 AM here, and I'm still not sleeping, ha, ha! I am proud to announce that all chapters now have titles more or less accurate, but I am proud of them nonetheless. This chapter is shorter than usual, but I think it turned out well in terms of entertainment. Enjoy!

_A dismal palette of grey nuances greets blue orbs as they blink open. At first, it's difficult to observe his surroundings, vision out of focus for quite some time. Then, the shadows around him become more and more distinct, a sea of different contours, different eyes, different armours, all dreadfully familiar to Achilles. Every night, those very same faces haunt his mind, their screams, and pleas ringing in his ears whilst the memory of their last moments plays over, and over again inside his head. Remorse has always been a concept he thought himself immune to, never really there before he took a life, never there after. Still, he remembers each face, each voice begging for mercy, each soldier he sent to Hades, each father, brother, son, and cousin... their blood staining his hands for eternity._

 

_The pain is gone, but the burning sensation on his chest remains. Numb muscles strain when he begins to walk through rows upon rows of motionless men. He spots a young boy, no older than fifteen, an ethereal statue mocking his cruelty. The image of the youth's frightened expression flashes before his mind's eye, accompanied by trembling words, and irrepressible tears "I don't want to die..." just as the Myrmidon run him through. Achilles will never forget the hollow eyes staring at him, imploring even in death to be spared._

 

_Taking in a deep breath, he turns away, resuming his wander. It feels like an eternity passed until he finally sees what seems to be a river glowing in the distance. With sure steps he speeds up his pace, percolating through the rows of stone-faced soldiers. As he gets nearer, a silhouette begins to form out of thin air, clad in a strikingly familiar armour that grows more, and more limpid the closer he gets._

 

_"Myrmidon." his mind offers._

 

_A light sheen of sweat glistens on his skin by the time he reaches the man standing by the riverbank, only a few feet away from the inert army Achilles has just sprinted out of. Instinctively, he keeps his distance, waiting for any reaction that the man has acknowledged his presence. Up close, the other looks like a god, taller than him, but not by much, definitely broader, and just as muscled. The armour adorning his body glimmers in its gilded splendor, despite the simple, but well-defined design that bears great resemblance to his own._

 

_"You are every bit the man I have imagined you will become."_

 

_That voice... he knows that voice. All thought processes short-circuit for a few moments before they reactivate._

 

_"Father..."_

 

_Of all the things he expected from this strange world he woke up to, meeting his dead father hasn't been one of them. Peleus died years ago, long after he entrusted Chiron with his son's tutelage, and training. Thetis never told Achilles what happened, only that he need not mourn. And he didn't. He was already too far past the point of letting such emotions cloud his mind._

 

_He watches on in silence whilst Peleus takes off his golden helmet then turns to face Achilles "Yes, son, it has been quite a while since we last saw each other, hasn't it?"_

 

_There is a pregnant pause before the younger Myrmidon decides to reply, keeping his composure, but unable to hide the bewildered glint in blue eyes so alike his father's "How... Why am I here?"_

 

_"If you are here, I'm assuming that you met him."_

 

_"Who?" his words inquire "Hector." his heart whispers at the same time._

 

_"Why your soulmate, of course. He is a handful from what I have gathered, but then again, you have never been less of a headache either. It reminds me of my struggle with your mother. She was as seething as a flame in the beginning, a raging lioness longing to devour me for merely having the intention to marry her. But her fire smothered quickly, and then she became like water, an elusive serpent hiding in the darkest depths of the sea, denying our connection."_

 

_Lifting his forearm, Peleus shows Achilles the underside of his wrist. There, the intricate pattern of a wave mingles with the veins twining underneath thin skin. It's beautiful._

 

_"After great efforts, I succeeded, and that is no secret." a light laugh. followed by a hand affectionately gripping his shoulder "You are our son, after all."_

 

_Silence falls upon them again, and he briefly closes his eyes. He wants to believe that it is nothing more than a dream. He wants to disavow the warmth spreading through him from the gentle contact. He wants to believe that he has gone insane... But it all feels too real to be ignored, too palpable to be just a figment of his imagination._

 

_When he opens his eyes, Peleus is still there, looking at him with a the love of a father conveyed in identical blue orbs "You are here because you have to make a choice. I can only hope that it will be the right one."_

 

_Then, he's gone, as if he was never there, the ghost of lips lingering on the Myrmidon's forehead. In a partial stupor, it takes him a tad longer to realise that he can't see the river anymore, its whirling murmurs coming from behind him instead. He spins around. On the other side of the stream, the torpid assemblage of soldiers stands still, immovable, unchanging._

 

◇◇◇

 

It takes all of her strength to drag Achilles to the post she had once been bound to, but she manages it easy enough. What is she going to do now. Hector is either dead or dying, and the Greek doesn't seem to fare any better. Why are the gods punishing her in such a way!? It can't get any worse...

 

"Cousin?"

 

Ignore that... it looks like it can...

 

Briseis holds her breath as she watches the tent's flaps part to make way for a young spitting image of the currently unconscious Myrmidon. Their eyes lock, and in that very moment nothing else exists, only them, and the now simmering sensation on her right thigh.

 

Her _soulmark_.

 

The spell is broken when he sees Achilles slumped against the wooden pole "Who are you!? What did you do!?" he demands, panick rather than anger prevalent in his tone as he rushed to his cousin.

 

Muscles, and motor functions suddenly triggered, she jumps away, a defensive "Nothing." leaving her mouth instantly.

 

She shrieks when the youth grabs her upper arms, shaking her "What did you do!?!"

 

"Nothing. Please, let me explain." she can't suppress the teary nuance of her voice "Please..."

 

◇◇◇

 

_Splashing sounds draw his attention back to what he is now certain is the River Styx, eyes widening when an arm shoots out from the roaring waters, close to the riverbank. He can't tell how, but he knows who it belongs to. There is no hesitation as he reaches out, warm skin meeting freezing flesh. For an instant, it feels like the torrent is luring him in as well._

 

_He won't let it._

 

_Feet firmly planted on the ground, he musters all the strength he can, then pulls._

 

◇◇◇

 

"And tha-"

 

Mirroring gasps interrupt Briseis' explanation, icy blue clashing with warm brown as two pairs of equally disturbed eyes meet, foreign emotions swirling in both of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read a bit about Peleus, and Thetis, and though it's not mythology accurate, I translated her very practical transformations into a metaphorical field because too much mythological elements give me such a headache. 
> 
> Comments are welcome! Until next time, drive carefully!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm sorry for my absence, it's been a long few weeks for me. Many projects then my puppy died right before my finals started... it's been... difficult to write properly. I apologise if this chapter is meh, but I do hope it's not that awful. I won't spoil anything, but I think you will enjoy the ending.
> 
> Thank you for reading this story, and for keeping me motivated! I hope to get back to my usual updating schedule soon.

"Cousin!"

 

"Hector!"

 

Equally worried, and relieved cries resound in unison as the two youths rush to their cousins' side. They receive no response, their calls falling on deaf ears.

 

Meanwhile, the two men in question are dwelling in a dream state, lost in each other's eyes while their hearts race in their chests a mile a minute. For the first time since they met, they truly look beyond the surface, they look beyond the bits, and pieces they've let slip so far. By the time they break eye contact, it's already too late, they've peered too much into the other's soul for things to go back to the way they were before.

 

Hector is the first to look away, a deep frown marring his face. It's wrong... so wrong to feel like this... so powerless, and stripped of his free will because of this damn destiny. What's worse is that the strange dream he had did nothing but make him admit that a bond has formed between him, and Achilles long before they came across one another, and only grew stronger with every interaction. The sensation of water filling his lungs is still so fresh in his mind, a tornado of emotions holding him under... despair, longing, regret... No one knows what went through his head whilst fought against the current, no one knows that the shout of help sealed behind his lips wasn't for Paris or Andromache. No one knows that the name echoing over, and over in his head like a mantra had been Achilles.

 

No one knows but he, and the gods.

 

He hears his soulmate's sharp "I'm fine" before he sees him leave the tent in a hurry, followed by what seems to be a younger copy of the Myrmidon. Suddenly exhausted, and nauseous, he mumbles a feeble reassurance to Briseis, a weary smile plastered on his face, before he lies back down, eyelids already heavy with sleep. The last thought swimming aimlessly in his mind is what will become of him... what will become of them...?

 

◇◇◇

 

The salty breeze is a welcome reprieve from the stifling atmosphere in his tent, although it makes his decision to leave no less disgraceful. He chose the coward's way out, and he has no valid excuse for that. Patroclus' concerned babble follows him outside, but he tunes it out as he relives what transpired not long ago.

 

When blue eyes snapped open, his entire world narrowed to only one person, Hector, and that had been enough for something unfathomable to sink its claws into his heart... something he hasn't felt ever since he was a frail child tormented by shadows, and screams that only his mother could ward off... Something he despises, something that makes him weak...

 

_Fear._

 

Of what? He isn't sure... Perhaps of being human, perhaps of the oddity of such a concept... Perhaps he is afraid of losing what he barely has, so close, yet so far, almost impossible to reach. Perhaps the prospect of simply accepting the gift fate has bestowed upon him is what truly frightens him beyond comprehension.

 

His time pondering this nerve-racking issue is cut short, however, Eudorus' hurried shouts drawing his attention from across the camp. The man is out of breath by the time he stands before Achilles, trying to deliver a message.

 

"M-my lord, King Odysseus wishes to speak to you."

 

This is, without a doubt, about the meeting they had.

 

"Thank you, Eudorus. Make sure my tent is well guarded." he orders as he begins to walk towards the Ithakan camp.

 

"Yes, my lord."

 

"But cousin!"

 

He stops "And see that Patroclus here doesn't get into trouble."

 

The firm undertones in his voice are enough to make the boy swallow his words, still worried, but obviously taken aback by the older Myrmidon's refusal to talk about what happened.

 

"Yes, my lord."

 

Mind somewhat taken off the matter of his soulmate, he makes it to Odysseus' camp in no time, curious stares following him as he strides towards the king's tent. He needs no guidance, he's been here before, right after they took the Trojan beach. Odysseus sensed his distress the moment he saw him. Naturally, Achilles evaded any allusion to his well-being, he trusted Odysseus, for he is a man of honour, but trust can only go so far when the Ithakan is almost permanently the Myrmidon's opposite in everything. Where Achilles is all-consuming anger, and self-destructive fire, Odysseus is the self-restraint voice of reason, famous for his diplomatic skills.

 

When he enters the tent, he is greeted with a calm, but most incriminating question "What are you doing?"

 

There is no ambiguity as to what the man is referring to. The answer comes right away "The fool wants to blame me for his ridiculous defeat. Do you expect me to bow before him, and accept such accusations? You know me better than that."

 

A sigh escapes dry lips "Unfortunately, I do... and the gods jest at my expense every day." followed by a fond smile that prompts Achilles' own mouth to curve into an amused smirk.

 

"Of that, I have no doubts. Now, what precisely did you want to talk to me about? I'm sure you didn't request my presence just to reprimand me."

 

He watches on as the king walks towards the table in the far corner of the tent, back turned to the very man who can take his life in the blink of an eye. He doesn't really know what to make of it. Then, Odysseus faces him again, holding two chalices of wine as he approaches the Myrmidon.

 

"As forthright as ever. You never change, my friend. Yes, I wanted to ask you, what exactly is the reasoning behind your refusal to cooperate? Agamemnon is a... difficult man, I understand, but we wouldn't be here if not for his ambition, and you wouldn't have this chance at glory. What changed?"

 

It's sound to believe that Odysseus has been onto this matter for quite some time. It's also not surprising that he has puzzled out Achilles' motivation from the very beginning, perhaps has even been one of the architects of it. He is far too perceptive for his own good. The Myrmidon doesn't answer immediately, cogitating on whether to deflect this inquiry or ignore it altogether. He decides on the former.

 

"It is not a matter of change as much as it is of logic. We both know Menelaus was the strategist among the two. Without him, Agamemnon is simply a malaka rabid for power who will, and has already made very poor decisions on the battlefield."

 

He sees Odysseus open his mouth before changing his mind, remaining silent. He takes it as a sign to continue.

 

"With Menelaus dead, and Ajax almost over the Styx as well, their troops' dominion falls to Agamemnon. That leaves you, me, and Nestor as the only ones with free command, and we already know where Nestor's allegiance lies, don't we? Will Agamemnon listen to your council? He didn't during the battle. That speaks for itself."

 

There's silence for a while, blue orbs eyeing the king, practically seeing the cogs turning in the older man's head. When he finally speaks, it's with resignation.

 

"The world seems simple to you, my friend, but, when you're a king, very few choices are simple..." there's a long pause, green eyes conveying far more than Odysseus is aware of "Ithaka cannot afford an enemy like Agamemnon."

 

"Are we supposed to fear him?"

 

"You don't fear anything, that's your problem."

 

Ah, there it is. He's been wondering when the Ithakan's fierce opposition will rear its head into their conversation.

 

"Fear... is useful...We need you in this war."

 

"Of all the kings of Greece, I respect you the most, but, in this war, you're a servant."

 

"Sometimes, you have to serve in order to lead."

 

The wisdom in Odysseus' response is not lost on him. However, it is not his way, it won't ever be his way unless he deems a man worthy of his aid.

 

"Agamemnon is a self-seeker, and a coward. This war is a pointless bloodshed. I won't let my men lose their lives because of one man's pride."

 

"Coming from you, that is rather counterproductive."

 

Another long pause follows while he holds Odysseus' stare until he speaks, at last.

 

"I have made my decision." he says, swiftly turning to leave.

 

"Does the prince share you views?"

 

He stops dead in his tracks, eyes widening instantly before narrowing in distaste. Without a word, he walks on.

 

And doesn't stop until he feels the sea's caress as water washes over his feet. The waves sing their melody in the distance, a soothing tandem with the wind that never fails to bring him peace, even in his darkest moments. His mother is to blame for this dependence of his, and he's thankful for it.

 

Above him, the sun continues its descend. It's long past its apex. Staring far, at the horizon, he wonders what his mother's advice would be... What would she say to help him see the right path? She knew that this would happen, she always knows... Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, feeling the breeze ruffle his hair, kissing his skin... He sighs. What is glory to him now? The pull towards that goal is no longer what has once been, becoming weaker, and weaker with each passing day. How could his heart's desire change so quickly... how could he let fate make a fool out of him... It's pointless to deny that he is drawn to the prince, there is no lying about it or there is no breaking this bond. Will it bring him to his doom? Most likely... but, even so, a sliver of a chance still exists for them... only if he acts on what he's thinking.

 

Day gradually turns into night as he reflects on his life, on his choices, be them predestined or not. It startles him when a voice cuts through his thoughts.

 

"My lord?"

 

When he looks over his shoulder, he freezes. There, leaning against his second in command, stood none other than Hector, weary eyes boring into his typical determination „We need to talk.”

 

He notices Eudorus' apologetic gaze.

 

"I'm sorry, my lord. I tried."

 

An exasperated sigh leaves his lips. At this point, he has no more energy to spare for anger or denial.

 

"Leave us."

 

It's Hector's cue to disentangle himself from the Greek. With a nod, Eudorus is gone in a flash, almost like he wasn't ever there to begin with. For a few moments, Achilles stares over his shoulder at the prince. Slightly, battered, but the worst wounds apparently healed, the prince looks breathtaking. Dark curls frame a perfectly chiseled face, disheveled compared to their usual pristine style as they cast a shadow over dark eyes. Tanned skin glimmers with sweat in the moonlight, dry lips drawing his attention, contoured by a clean-cut beard. To sum up, he has never seen such beauty in his life. No woman or man can compare to the creature before him. He feels the need to look away. And he does, motioning for the prince to come closer.

 

From the corner of his eye, he sees the prince sit beside him on the soft sand, looking into the distance as he slowly breathes, in and out, like the waves that kiss the shore before retreating. The tamer of horses is even more beautiful up close, a god trapped in human form, and he can't seem to be able to look away.

 

"What are we doing...?"

 

The question is barely above a whisper, resigned... defeated, and, honestly, he has no idea how to answer. It's all so strange, so different from what he imagined it would be. Gone is his desire for glory, in its place the need to feel complete. He is weak... he is _human_ , and he dreads it. Without really thinking, he reaches out to gently grab Hector's chin, turning the man's head towards him. Time stops, and they are the only ones in the world yet again. As blue bores into brown, they gravitate into each other's space.

 

They meet halfway, lips melting into a smouldering kiss. All rationality leaves his mind, once sharp senses going haywire, focusing on every point of contact they can get. From their joint lips to where his hand rests upon the Trojan's bruised cheek, everything is electrifying. He feels alive like never before, he feels... complete... at last.

 

When they break the kiss, they finally have all the answers they've been searching for. Foreheads pressed together, they close their eyes, equally content smiles gracing their lips.


End file.
